


Family Practice

by shell



Series: Plan of Care [5]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Moving In Together, Original Characters - Freeform, WIP, nursing au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: Family practice: the health care specialty that provides health care regardless of age or gender while placing emphasis on the family unit.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the beginning of this sequel written for years. I decided to start posting it, unbetaed, so I could get at least some of it out there, and hoping that it will help inspire me to finish it. Please let me know if there are any typos you notice. I'm not sure how long it'll be between chapters--it might take me a long time to finish--but hopefully the individual chapters will be fairly self-contained.

Phil thought he'd long since moved past the time when something could happen at clinical that would surprise him. He'd been teaching for over a dozen years, and he thought he’d seen it all. 

He'd had students decide on the hospital elevator that maybe nursing school wasn't for them after all, and other students fight that perception until they were forced to concede to grades or clinical failure. Students had cried on his shoulder when loved ones had died, and they'd cried in anger and frustration when he'd caught them in a med error. A pregnant student had once passed out in the middle of a sterile dressing change in full PPE in a contact isolation room. Students had stuck themselves with needles; they'd come in to the hospital with the stomach flu; staff nurses and patients alike had traumatized them. 

Phil had worried about students, been concerned about patients, angry at physicians, frustrated by hospital routines, and excited when a student made a breakthrough. He’d even come close to crying with a student now and then. But until that night in July with what was supposed to be Grant Ward’s clinical group, he'd never been frightened for his own safety or that of his students. 

The first time Phil heard about problems with Grant was when the department chair, Victoria Hand, had informed him that he'd be taking over Grant's clinical group for the summer. Despite the appearance of an order, it had sounded like carefully concealed panic. It was the closest he'd ever heard Dr. Hand come to expressing an actual emotion. 

She needed him far too much for there to be a real threat to his job--he brought in both publicity and money thanks to his connections to SHIELD and Tony Stark. Victoria was desperate, and the students needed an instructor, so he agreed to take them for a week, no longer. He had plans for that summer, and they did not include teaching--he intended to spend every moment he could with Clint--but he'd ended up bonding with the somewhat traumatized group at the first pre-conference. They'd been grateful for the smallest explanation, the most minimal positive reinforcement; when he'd explained the situation to Clint, he'd smiled and said, "It's okay, Phil. They need you."

The only one of the students Phil had already known was Skye, who'd turned herself in after helping another student cheat and been allowed to repeat the semester. She also was now going by Daisy for some reason related to her past. He wasn't sure at first that readmitting her had been the right decision--she had a reputation for cutting corners and disregarding authority--but aside from a few moments early on, she'd buckled down and performed admirably. Which made what happened that night even more unfortunate.

It started when his cell phone rang while he was in an isolation room with another student. He ignored it, focusing on the Elena’s gloved hands as she set the IV pump for the piggyback. "Remember, we give Zosyn over four hours now," he corrected quietly. She nodded and changed the setting, biting her lip. 

His phone went off again, but it stopped after only two rings. Phil felt a twinge of worry--what if something had happened to one of the kids?--but he told himself they were fine. They were having a great time in DC with Natasha and Melinda. Then the intercom went off with a code grey, meaning a combative patient or visitor. The room number was that of one of Daisy’s patients. 

Phil made sure Elena had everything set up right, talking her through it again as he degowned and degloved as quickly as he could without contaminating anything. He washed his hands in the appropriate fashion, frustrated that the running water kept him from hearing anything outside the door. It wouldn't do to half-ass anything in front of a student, especially with contact isolation for VRE, even if he knew full well he hadn't touched anything in the room. 

There was no need to run if you could walk as fast as Phil could. It was a skill cultivated by years of floor nursing followed by years of teaching; a student had once joked that if she saw Phil running, she'd know the apocalypse was nigh. He made it down the hall quickly only to be stopped by hospital security. 

"We need to keep this area clear, sir," the guy said. There was sweat on his face: he, it seemed, _had_ run recently. "We're about to evacuate the floor."

In all his years of nursing, Phil had never witnessed an actual evacuation, although they'd come close once in San Francisco when there was a bomb threat. "My student is in there," he said to the security guy just as the announcement to evacuate went out over the intercom and the police showed up. "Is she okay?"

"Your student?" the security guy asked. "You're Professor Coulson?"

"That's right," Phil said, nodding. "Did she ask for me?" The cops were talking to another of the security officers behind him; he heard the word "hostage" and tensed up.

"Step back behind the line," the guy told him, gesturing to the police tape going up. "Stay there; we might need to talk to you again."

Phil stepped back, feeling helpless. At one time he would have forced his way through the way he had when Loki had taken Clint, but his time with Jimmy Woo had taught him enough about police procedure to respect it until there was an actual reason not to. 

A few of his students approached him, concerned and confused. He told them they should help out with the evacuation and then go home; the rest of clinical was cancelled. "I'm staying," he told them, "but you need to leave. Help the staff relocate the patients, and be safe."

"Is Daisy all right?" Joey asked. "Will you let us know what happened?"

"They haven't told me anything," Phil said, "but I'll text you all when I have news. Now go, please."

He watched in increasing alarm as more police arrived and set up a command post at the nurses' station. Some of them were dressed in riot gear, complete with jackets that said SWAT on the back. One woman appeared to be a hostage negotiator; Phil grew more worried about Daisy by the minute. He took out his cell phone to text Clint but decided to wait until he knew more, wondering if he should call Jimmy instead. Phil hadn't talked to him in years, but this might be an occasion that warranted a conversation. He was looking Jimmy up in his contacts when a dark-haired woman in plain clothes, a badge clipped to her belt, came up to him.

"You Phil Coulson?" she asked.

He nodded. "Is Daisy--"

"I need you to tell me everything you know about Grant Ward," she said, rolling right over what he'd tried to ask. "Starting with how he knows your student, Skye, and what his relationship is with you."

"Listen, Detective," he said, because she hadn't bothered to give him her name, "I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have, but could you please tell me how Daisy is first? She changed her name; she doesn’t go by Skye anymore," he added when the woman frowned.

He stood there, face impassive, as she studied him for a moment. "As far as we know, she's fine," she said eventually. "Ward swears he doesn't want to hurt her. But she's not the only one in that room with him, and he's made no promises about the eighty year old woman with heart problems."

Phil wracked his brain, trying to remember Daisy’s patient assignment that evening. Was it the acute decompensated heart failure, or the a-fib that was refractory to cardioversion? Or maybe it was the one with the mechanical mitral valve and the INR of 5.2? Whoever it was, they needed to get her, and Daisy as well, out of there. "What does he want?" he asked the detective.

"Other than Skye--sorry, Daisy--I was hoping you could tell me," she answered. "Although I suppose it's only fair to tell you he doesn't speak very highly of you."

"He's mentioned me?" Phil asked, surprised. 

"No, I heard it from her," the detective said, nodding at Janet Van Dyne, who was standing off to the side, talking to another of the police officers. Phil remembered that she was the staff nurse assigned to Daisy’s patients. "Apparently he went off on the topic the last time she saw him.”

"I see," Phil said, considering. "It may have something to do with a man named John Garrett." 

Something bad had happened in the weeks since John had come to Chicago, although Phil hadn't paid much attention at first. Trip had contacted Phil days before the call from Victoria, saying he'd left John in Bogota because he suspected John was funneling donations somewhere other than the NGO they were working with. "I don't have any proof," he'd told Phil over the phone from Los Angeles, but Phil had made sure to mention Garrett's name to the private investigator Tony had hired.

"John Garrett?" another voice said, this one coming from a tall, imposing woman in a black suit. Despite her pleasant expression, there was something about her that made Phil think she could break him in half without breaking a sweat. "Special Agent Jennifer Walters, FBI," she said, addressing it to both Phil and the detective.

"Jessica Drew," the detective said. "What's the FBI doing here?"

"I’ve been working the Garrett case for over a year, and we’ve had our eye on Ward for the last six months," Walters said.

"Six months? Why the hell didn’t you do something before now?" Phil asked. If he’d known before John came to town, maybe he’d have done better by Clint. He took a moment to be grateful, once again, that Clint had forgiven his idiocy.

"Garrett’s slippery, and Ward is even slipperier," Walters said. "This could be the break we need to take them both down."

"It could also be the night he kills an innocent nursing student," Drew said, and Phil’s heart rate kicked up even more. "Let’s keep that our focus, all right?"

"Don’t forget the patient," Phil reminded the two women. 

"We won’t," Walters said, nodding at Phil. "The sooner we can get this mess sorted out, the better--that’s why we need your help, Mr. Coulson." 

A few minutes later Phil was seated in the break room telling Detective Drew and Agent Walters everything he could about John, Grant, and Daisy. "No, she doesn't have a legal last name," he said again. "Believe me, I wish she did--you have no idea what hoops we had to jump through to get her a user name on the charting system here. She’s going by Daisy Johnson, but she hasn’t changed it legally yet."

Janet came in while Phil was telling Drew and Walters about working with Grant the previous semester. She looked around frantically before settling on Phil. "Mrs. Parker’s heart rate's spiking, and she's throwing PVCs," she said. "God knows what the rest of her vitals are--she never got her eight o'clocks, Phil."

"May Parker? Crap, that's Peter's aunt," Phil said when he figured why the name was familiar. Peter was on vacation that week--hopefully there wouldn't be a need to call him back early. "What was she on?" he asked, immediately standing up and following Janet to the hallway monitor. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was close to ten.

"Dig, labetolol, Lasix, amiodarone," Janet said. "Hydralazine prn for systolic over 150, and she's on a potassium sliding scale, but she got that earlier. Daisy had them all pulled, but I locked them up in the med drawer for her. She was just about to call you when that asshole showed up and started waving his gun around."

Phil watched as Mrs. Parker's heart threw a run of three PVCs. "We need to get in there," he said, turning to Agent Walters. "I have an idea. I need to talk to a couple of people, but if I'm right, there's a way to resolve this situation."

Agent Walters cocked a neatly plucked eyebrow at him. "Really," she said, skepticism dripping from the word. "Just what are you proposing, Mr. Coulson?"

"Succinylcholine," Phil answered. He texted Jasper without waiting for her response. _If you're still in the hospital, I need you up on the third floor STAT. Bring succs._

_I’m not gonna like this, am I?_ came Jasper’s response a few seconds later. _On my way._

Twenty minutes later, which was about fifteen minutes longer than Phil was comfortable with, everything was set. "Are you sure about this?" Detective Drew asked, frowning at Phil.

"I'm sure that if someone doesn't go in there and get these meds to Mrs. Parker, she could die," Phil said, gesturing at the monitor. The PVCs were multiforme now, her heart rate was 123, and she was practically in trigemony. "So unless you have a better idea, I'm going in there."

"Let me go, Phil," Jasper said. 

"Grant doesn't know you; he'd never agree to it. Besides, I'm the one he wants," Phil said, shaking his head. "Don't worry--between Clint, Natasha, and Melinda, I've picked up a few things over the years."

"None of them were combat-trained, Phil. Clint was a medic, and Melinda and Natasha are nurses," Maria pointed out; she'd showed up with Jasper. Phil ignored her.

"Whoever's going better go now," Janet said, gesturing at the monitor.

Phil took a deep breath and let it out. He could feel the syringe tucked into his belt at the back, hidden by his lab coat. It wasn’t a gun, but it was their best shot, he was sure of it. 

He took another breath and headed down the hallway. He could do this. He heard the hostage negotiator talking to Grant, telling him that Phil was coming in, but he couldn't hear Grant's response. They didn't call out for him to stop, so presumably Grant hadn't threatened to shoot him on sight. 

Grant answered the door with a smile, gesturing with his gun for Phil to come in. He had his other arm around Daisy, who was looking at him with apparent adoration. Smart girl. "Mrs. Parker, Phil here has brought your medications," Grant called out. When Grant looked away from Daisy, Phil could see disgust and fear flash across her face before she schooled her expression back to sycophantic love. 

Mrs. Parker was sitting up in bed, elbows on the bedside table, breathing at what Phil quickly estimated was 28 or 30 times a minute. 

"Oh, no, how will you identify the patient?" Grant asked, his mouth open in mock surprise. "I don't see any scanner or computer with you!"

Phil ignored him and moved quickly to the bed. "Mrs. Parker, I've got your medications," he said, looking at her ID. "We're monitoring your heart rate from the hallway, and as soon as we can, we're going to get you out of here, all right?"

Mrs. Parker nodded and accepted the pills, swallowing them one by one as Phil watched her closely--at the rate she was breathing, she was definitely at risk for aspiration. The edema on her legs was at least 3+, and the urine in her foley looked dark. He wished he'd brought a syringe of Lasix along with the succs--the PO dose was hardly sufficient--but hopefully she'd get the treatment she needed soon. He settled for increasing the flow rate on her oxygen--her pulse-ox was good, 94%, but she wasn't going to be able to keep that up for long if she continued to work so hard to breathe.

"I'm going to take your blood pressure, okay?" he asked, and she nodded again. He set the machine for every fifteen minutes, knowing that, as well as the oxygen saturation, would be readable on the monitor outside the room. He saw that Daisy had turned off her IV and gave her an approving nod--the last thing Mrs. Parker needed was more fluids. 

Once he'd done all he could, he turned back towards Grant and Daisy. "Mrs. Parker needs more care," he said, hoping there was still a part of Grant that cared about patients, if there ever really had been. "Please, let her go. I'll stay in her place."

Grant barked out a laugh. "Not a chance, Coulson," he said. "Until we get what we want, you and she are staying right here with us."

"What is it you want?" Phil asked, trying to remember any and all self-defense techniques he'd ever learned. _Stay loose and pay attention,_ he thought. _Don't forget to breathe._ He'd said basically the same thing to countless nervous students; hopefully it would work on him as well.

"Well, mostly I wanted Skye," Grant said, almost jovially. "She was reluctant at first, but she's come around now, so all we need now is a free pass out of here. Taking you down a peg or two is just gonna be a bonus." Before Phil had a chance to move away from the bed, Grant had the phone cord nearly around Phil's neck; he barely got a hand up in time to protect his airway. He elbowed Grant as hard as he could, but it didn't stop the pull of the cord against his neck. He scrambled for the syringe with his free hand, but Grant knocked it away. 

He could hear Daisy yelling, "What the hell are you doing? Leave him alone!" But Grant only pulled the cord tighter. Despite having his hand between the cord and his trachea, Phil was starting to feel light-headed; he wasn't going to last much longer. He reached behind him, hoping to find something he could use as a weapon, only to be surprised when someone--Mrs. Parker, he assumed--pressed a fork into his hand. He jammed it into Grant's thigh as hard as he could. 

The cord loosened just a bit. Phil was getting ready to move when Mrs. Parker helped out again, this time by tossing a full carafe of water into Grant's face. Grant loosened his grip on the cord just long enough for Phil to get free. He tried to jab the fork into Grant's neck, but he wasn't fast enough--Grant pistol-whipped him across the face, and he fell against the bedrail, stunned. 

Phil had gotten some training years earlier from Natasha and Melinda, and he'd learned a little more from Clint, but Grant was younger, stronger, and had a longer reach. He also had a gun. Phil's only hope was doing something unexpected enough to get the drop on him. Problem was, Phil was out of ideas, and Grant looked like he was out of patience. He was holding the gun on Phil, and his finger was on the trigger. 

Phil wished he had a better weapon than a dull fork and an out-of-reach syringe. He closed his eyes, coming to terms with the fact that he might not make it out of this. The kids were old enough that they'd survive without him. His mother and Clint would make sure they were okay; he could be thankful for that, and so very thankful he'd had the past few months with Clint. 

Then he opened his eyes again, because he wasn’t the only one whose life was on the line. He had to do everything he could to save Daisy and Mrs. Parker.

Fortunately, Grant wasn't watching out for Daisy the way he should have, and it turned out that hitting a man in the balls with an IV pole was a very effective way to bring him to the floor. Phil quickly retrieved the syringe while Daisy stood over Grant, whose internal jugular was bulging impressively; his blood pressure must be pretty high. Phil almost felt sorry for him, but then he ruined it by trying to kick Phil's feet out from under him. 

"Don't move, scumbag," Daisy said, and Phil saw that she'd picked up the gun and aimed it at Grant. 

"You really expect me to believe you're gonna shoot me?" Grant asked. "Come on, Skye. You don't have it in you."

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," Daisy said, shrugging. "I might not be able to kill you, but I bet I could wound you. Maybe shoot you in the kneecap. Or the dick region. Because you're a dick, Grant. And I told you, my name is _Daisy."_

Grant's eyes were focused on the gun, so Phil made his move, aiming the needle as best he could and injecting more quickly than he'd ever pushed a med outside of a code. He only got about a quarter of the medication in before Grant knocked the syringe away, grabbing at his neck and smearing blood over his hand. "What the fuck did you do to me?” he asked as he slumped to the floor again, weakened but still conscious. 

Phil calmly picked the syringe up, took an alcohol wipe out of his pocket, and swiped it against Grant's antecubital area, holding his arm down with relative ease. Ideally he'd have changed needles, but he didn't actually give a fuck if Grant got an infection. He injected the rest of the medication swiftly, and seconds later, Grant was out. "Daisy, could you get me the ambu-bag?" he asked. "And hit the call light. We’re gonna need some help in here."

By the time SWAT had made it down the hall, he and Daisy were bagging Grant. "Get someone down here to intubate," he told them. "Jasper Sitwell should be waiting."

"He's right behind us, sir," one of the officers said; Phil recognized the woman he'd assumed was the hostage negotiator. "Just give us a minute to secure the scene."

"Mrs. Parker, are you doing okay?" Phil called over his shoulder. "She needs medical attention," he added to the cop.

"We're aware, sir; just give us a moment," she answered, picking up Grant's gun, unloading it, and putting both the magazine and the gun into an evidence bag. "Did Ward have any other weapons?"

"Not that I know of," Phil answered. "Daisy?"

She shook her head, not looking away from the ambu-bag. 

"I'll need to search him," the officer said, squatting down next to them.

"That's fine, as long as you don't mess with his airway," Phil said. "And make it quick. We don't have an NG handy, and his stomach's already blowing up." He glanced down at Grant's neck to make sure he could still see his pulse beating in his carotid. It seemed to be steady and within normal limits, but Phil would feel better once he was hooked up to a monitor--he had no idea how much succinylcholine he'd actually gotten into Grant or how long the apnea might last. Jasper was the CRNA, not Phil.

The officer was both quick and thorough, finding two knives and a second gun. "Okay, we're clear," she said into her radio after checking in with the other cops. "Send down Mr. Sitwell, Dr. Strange, and the medics."

Phil let out a sigh of relief. Dr. Strange lived up to his name in some ways, but he was the best cardiologist in the city. He'd make sure Mrs. Parker didn't suffer any ill effects from her time as a hostage. 

Everyone was out of the room in short order--Mrs. Parker off to IMC for closer monitoring, Grant to…somewhere, Phil and Daisy to the break room, where a doc from the ER insisted on checking Phil out despite his protestation that he was fine. Detective Drew handed him his phone while a nurse was applying some Dermabond to the laceration on his forehead. He'd missed several texts and a few phone calls from Clint. His phone started buzzing before he could read the texts.

"I'm okay," he said when he picked up. It was true. Mostly.

"What the hell happened, Phil?" Clint asked.

"The short version is, Grant Ward went nuts and tried to kidnap one of my students," Phil said. "He's in custody now, and everyone is okay."

"I have a feeling I'm not gonna like the long version," Clint said. "You sure you're all right? You sound a little hoarse."

"I'm fine," Phil said. It wasn't really a lie--the cut on his forehead was minor, as was the bruising on his cheek--but he'd rather not explain the contusions on his neck over the phone. "I'm guessing I'll be stuck making a witness statement before I can get home, but I'm okay, Clint."

"Exactly what did you witness?" Clint asked.

"A lot," Phil admitted after a moment. "I promise I'll tell you the whole story when I get home. Did it make the national news? I haven't heard anything from the kids."

"I'll give Nat a call and let her know you're okay," Clint said, accepting the deflection. "That way she can tell Ava and Henry if they freak out."

"Thanks," Phil said, and nodded at Detective Drew, who was gesturing for him to come talk to her. "Listen, I've got to go."

"Text me when you leave?" Clint said.

"I will," Phil said. "And Clint?"

"Yeah?" Clint asked.

"I love you." Phil felt exposed, saying it where anyone could hear him, but he didn't let it stop him. The nurse, who Phil belatedly realized actually worked for Clint in the ED, smiled at him as she finished cleaning him up.

"I love you, too, babe," Clint said. "Drive safe."

Phil took a moment to text one of his students with the news that both he and Daisy were fine before he looked for Detective Drew. Despite the fact that Phil had been the one in danger this time, giving his statement felt a lot less fraught than when he'd spoken to Jimmy after Loki’s assault of Clint. 

Daisy was talking to Sif Rowan, the woman he'd thought was the hostage negotiator; she was evidently Detective Drew's partner. Agent Walters was sitting with them and taking notes. She had given Phil her card and told him she'd be in touch, so apparently she didn't need to talk to him that night. That was fine with Phil--the adrenaline had worn off, and he was starting to flag. 

Finally Detective Drew told him she'd gotten what she needed. He went over to check on Daisy before heading home. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She nodded. Then she stood and hugged him tightly. "Thank you. Seriously, PC, thank you so much."

"It's okay," he said, patting her somewhat awkwardly on the back. He was never sure what to do when a student hugged him. ”And I think I should be thanking you--that was quick thinking with the IV pole."

"I guess we made a pretty good team," Daisy said and stepped away, wiping her eyes. 

"I guess we did," Phil said, smiling at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I'll see you next week, but feel free to call if you need to talk to me before then."

He texted Clint when he was on his way to the parking garage and spent the drive home wondering what the hell was going on with Grant and John. Phil had already put Trip in touch with Carol Danvers, the private detective he and Tony had looking into Hammer. Phil was going to need to tell her to add Grant to the list of people she was investigating. He'd have to let Trip know what had happened; he was sure Agent Walters would be contacting him soon.

Ms. Danvers, a former Air Force colonel who'd had to retire after a TBI, had amassed quite a collection of information on Justin Hammer already. Phil hadn't decided yet what he might tell Ava about Hammer, or when, and now things were a whole lot more complicated than he'd thought. At least he'd have time to talk it all over with Clint before the kids got back from DC.

He hadn't let himself consider it while he was driving, but once he pulled into his driveway and saw Clint's Charger, he sighed in relief. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought he’d be there, but knowing that Clint was waiting for him inside touched something deep inside Phil he'd only opened himself to recently. When Lucky greeted him at the door, Clint standing behind him, Phil decided it was time to have that talk with Clint he'd been thinking about--he wasn’t going to screw things up again by waiting. 

"You said you were fine," Clint said sharply, his fingers skimming across Phil's forehead. Phil leaned toward him. Clint huffed at him, but his hand gently cupped Phil's cheek.

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone," Phil said apologetically. "And I am fine. It's nothing serious."

"How is it not serious that--holy shit, Phil, what the hell happened to your neck?" Clint asked, moving Phil's collar aside so he could inspect the marks the phone cord had made.

"He…Grant tried to strangle me," Phil said, his voice shaking. Now that he was home, now that he was with Clint, he couldn’t keep the reality of it from sinking in. "Tried to kill me. He tried to kill me, Clint." His eyes spilled over and he turned away, embarrassed. 

"Jesus, babe, come here," Clint said softly, folding him into his arms. "You’re okay, Phil. You’re home now, it’s okay." 

Phil held on tightly, thinking nonsensically that Daisy had had her moment, and now it was time for his. They stood there for a couple of minutes until Phil lifted his head and swiped at his eyes. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. Shit, I’m just glad you’re still here. Come on, let's sit down," Clint said, and led him towards the living room, his arm around Phil's waist. "You need anything to drink? Let me get you some ibuprofen and water."

Phil shook his head. "They gave me a shot of Toradol."

"You get a chance to eat?" Clint asked. "There's some scones in the kitchen, or I could make you a sandwich."

Phil didn't want to think about it. "I just want to shower and get to bed."

"Phil," Clint said. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

"…lunch, I guess," Phil said after a moment. 

"You know as well as I do that your blood sugar’s got to be in the toilet right now," Clint said. "Stay there; I’ll be back in a minute with some food."

Once Phil had eaten, Clint manhandled him into the bathroom and out of his clothes while the shower heated up. He ran his hands lightly over every bump and bruise, stopping occasionally to brush a kiss somewhere. He followed Phil into the shower, keeping an arm around him for support. Phil let go as he so rarely did and just let Clint take care of him, let Clint love him. He relaxed as Clint washed his hair and his body with gentle, sure hands, as he toweled Phil dry, bundled him into flannel pajamas, and tucked him into bed. He managed to mumble "love you" into Clint’s shoulder before closing his eyes and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

They usually set their alarms for the same time; the vibration from Clint's always woke Phil up, but making sure the switch was flicked on his twenty-year-old clock radio was too ingrained a habit to break. But Victoria had told Phil to stay home for the rest of the week in the same firm tone she used for everything else, so he’d left his off. Clint had said something about taking the day himself, so when Phil felt Clint's alarm vibrating, he wondered if Clint had forgotten to turn his off as well.

He sat up, blinking blearily as Clint checked his phone; apparently it wasn't the alarm after all. "Sorry, babe," Clint said, reaching for his hearing aids. "They called a meeting of all the unit managers to talk about security."

"Okay," Phil said, still half asleep. He glanced at the clock, which read 7:05.

"Go back to sleep. I'll be home as soon as I can," Clint said. "I mean, I'll be back. If you want," he added after a moment.

"Of course I want," Phil said, yawning. 

Clint vanished into the bathroom before Phil registered what he said; once he did, Phil got up to follow him. It took a minute--every single cell in his body ached. He stretched as best he could and hobbled after Clint.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked around his toothbrush when he saw Phil.

"I'd think that was fairly obvious," Phil said, picking up his toothbrush.

"No, I mean…Phil, you should go back to bed. Just because I have to get up doesn't mean you have to."

Phil ignored him in favor of his dental hygiene. Clint sighed but went on with his own morning routine, the two of them navigating around each other seamlessly. Neither one of them said much until they were seated on the couch with their mugs of coffee. "There's something I need to say to you," Phil said. 

Clint tensed up again and opened his mouth, but Phil held up his hand. "No, let me talk first, okay? It’s nothing bad, and I promise I'll listen to anything you have to say after I'm done."

Clint nodded, resigned, and Phil gave him what he hoped was a suitably reassuring smile. The last thing he wanted to do was make Clint worry. "When I got home last night, and I saw your car in the garage, when I knew that you were here, waiting for me, I can't begin to tell you how that made me feel."

"If you tell me you were surprised, we definitely need to talk," Clint said, with the kind of smirk he'd put on to hide when he was upset or hurt.

"I wasn't surprised--I was thankful. I knew you’d be here," Phil said, putting his hand on Clint's thigh, "but seeing your car reminded me just how lucky I am. I love you so much, and I’m so fucking grateful you’re in my life."

"You have to know I'm not going anywhere," Clint said. The hurt was gone, replaced with a fond expression.

"That's the thing," Phil said, touching Clint's face. "I don't want you to go anywhere. I love you, and I want you here--in this house. In my bed-- _our bed--_ every night. I know it's not fair to you that we can't even talk about me moving in with you, or look for a place together--"

"Hey, stop," Clint said, leaning in to kiss him softly. "Yes, okay? If this is you asking me to move in, the answer's yes. This place already feels more like home to me than any other place I've ever lived."

The only thing Phil could do in response to that was smile and say, "I'm glad, because it feels more like home with you in it."

They smiled at each other for a moment, then Clint glanced at his watch and said, "Shit, I've got to go. We'll work out the details later. Wait--what about the kids? Are Ava and Henry gonna be okay with this?"

"Ava was asking me when you were moving in a month ago," Phil said. "Henry said he'd feel better if there was someone here to keep me company when Ava goes off to college. They're more than okay with it."

"Okay, good," Clint said. "I'll…I'll be home as soon as I can." 

The soft smile that broke over his face was so gorgeous that Phil had to kiss him. "I'll be waiting," he promised. 

Clint kissed him once more and stood to leave.

Phil thought about going back to bed--he was tired, and it felt like his entire body was one big bruise--but when he got back into the bedroom, he saw Clint's duffel and frowned. Clint still brought clothes back and forth from his apartment--Phil had cleaned out a couple of drawers in the dresser, but it wasn't going to be enough once Clint moved in. Phil needed to make more room in the house for Clint, just as he’d made room for him in his heart.

It was past time he donated some of his older suits; the clothing exchange at the psych hospital could always use them, as well as anything else he didn’t need anymore. He’d have to ask Ava and Henry to go through their things as well, but that could wait. Once he’d finished deciding what to get rid of, he could store his winter clothes in the basement and swap them out once summer was over. 

There was no time like the present. He was awake, and he could take some ibuprofen and drink some more coffee. Might as well get to work.

Clint found him in the storage room in the basement when he got home. "What are you doing down here?" he asked. "Didn't you hear me calling you? I thought I was the one who was supposed to be deaf."

"Sorry," Phil said, signing as well as speaking for extra emphasis. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting on the floor in his pajamas, contemplating the box in front of him. The bed he still thought of as Darcy's had clothes piled haphazardly on top of it, everything from suits that were barely out of style to Henry's baby clothes, but Phil wasn't paying them any attention.

"Hey," Clint said, his tone changing from exasperated to concerned. "That doesn't look very comfortable." He turned on the overhead light and sat down next to Phil.

"It's not," Phil admitted, stretching his back with a groan. The ibuprofen he’d taken that morning wasn’t helping that much.

"What's going on?" Clint asked, gesturing at the box in front of Phil and the room behind them. 

Phil shrugged. "I wanted to clear one of the closets out for you. And a few more drawers."

"Okay," Clint said patiently. "That explains the clothing explosion on the bed out there, but not you on the floor with that box. I'm guessing here, but is it Ellie's stuff?"

Phil sighed and nodded. His eyes burned, and he blinked to clear them. _Low blood sugar and exhaustion,_ he self-diagnosed, _combined with grief and recent trauma, leading to inadequate defenses._ Crying twice in 24 hours, that was just great.

"Hey, come here," Clint said, pulling him close. Phil relaxed into his embrace for a long moment, the warmth of Clint's arms and body chasing away the chill from sitting on a concrete floor without even his bathrobe. "Come on," Clint said eventually. "It's freezing down here; let's get you upstairs." 

Phil needed some help getting up, which he blamed on how sore he was, ignoring the crepitus in his knees. He glanced at the box again, and Clint said, "Don’t worry about that; I’ll bring it up later." Phil nodded again and followed him slowly up the stairs. 

"What do you want first--lunch, soaking in the tub, or a nap?" 

"They all sound good," Phil admitted. 

Clint snorted. "They're supposed to. Did you eat anything?"

"Just a banana," Phil said, realizing at that moment that he was, in fact, very hungry. "Lunch would be great. I can get it," he added as Clint opened the fridge.

"Phil," Clint said, giving him a hard stare. "This is not me feeling insecure. This is me taking care of you because _you nearly got killed last night._ I love you, remember?"

"I know," Phil said, nodding weakly. "Sorry." It had been easy to let Clint take care of him the night before, but he guessed old habits really did die hard.

"It's okay," Clint answered. "Just--I need to do this. Let me, please?"

"That would be great," Phil said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Clint said, pulling things out of cupboards, the pantry, and the refrigerator. It didn't take long before the two of them were eating grilled cheese sandwiches (Phil wasn’t sure how Clint had improved on the Coulson secret recipe, but he’d found a way) and leftover tomato soup. 

After that, Phil allowed himself to be chivvied into the tub for a long soak alone, but when Clint tucked him into bed, Phil grabbed his hand. "Stay," he said. "Please?"

Clint got in right beside him and wrapped his arms around Phil. "Of course," he said. "Kinda feel like keeping you close anyway." 

After dinner, Clint brought the box up into the living room and sat next to Phil while he went through it. Phil remembered a lot of it, but the shoebox filled with the videotapes Ellie had recorded was a surprise. He had a vague recollection of her instructions to let some time pass after her death before he watched them, but there was the post-it note taped onto the box with her handwriting: _For Phil, when you're ready._

"Do you think it's still okay?" Phil asked Clint, clutching the oldest tape tightly. The recordings she'd made for Henry and Ava had mostly been on CD or DVD, and they'd been carefully kept in the entertainment center for the last thirteen years. 

"I don't see why not," Clint said softly, reaching out to run his fingers through Phil's hair. 

"Yeah, I guess," Phil said. "I think there are some batteries for the remote in the drawer of the end table--hopefully the remote's in there too." 

"You know you don't have to watch anything tonight," Clint said. "Not if you're not ready."

"I want to," Phil said, fishing through the drawer until he unearthed the remote. "It's waited long enough. Could you check and see if it's plugged in? I hope it got hooked up when we got the new tv…."

"It did," Clint said. "It's plugged in, too, and the batteries should still be in the remote. Ava wanted to watch one of her tapes a few weeks ago, so I made sure everything was set up for her."

Phil sat back on the couch. "Oh," he said. 

"Is that okay?" Clint asked, looking at him anxiously. "I didn't watch it with her--"

"Of course it's okay," Phil interrupted. "I didn't know, that's all. Did she seem upset?"

"No," Clint said, shaking his head. "Just kind of thoughtful, I guess?"

"Huh," Phil said, making a mental note to carefully broach the subject once the kids got back from DC. Then he took a moment to be thankful that they'd received no panicked phone calls from the kids; apparently the previous night's activities hadn't been big news outside of Chicago. 

"Here," Clint said, taking the tape and putting it in the player. "I…I guess I'll leave you to it, then, unless you want me to stay."

"Stay," Phil said immediately. "Please."

Clint nodded and sat next to him on the couch.

Phil couldn't help the pained noise he made when the screen flickered and Ellie came into view. The videos she'd made for the kids had begun during her recovery from her initial surgery, which coincided with her first round of chemo, and she'd already looked pretty sick in them. She'd clearly made this recording before any of that--she looked worried, maybe a little angry, but healthy. And so beautiful. 

Clint took his hand as Ellie began to talk about visiting the prison and getting Hammer to sign the paperwork giving up his parental rights. "If something happens to me, PJ--if I die from this, or I get hit by a bus, or aliens invade--the only one I trust to take care of my babies is you."

“Henry was right,” Phil murmured. Clint turned to him, putting the video on pause. "He remembers the visit," Phil explained.

"Jesus," Clint said. "How old was he?"

"Four," Phil said. 

"I wasn’t that much older when my parents died," Clint said quietly. Phil kissed his temple and restarted the video.

They watched half of the recordings that night and the rest the following day. Phil wasn't sure he'd have been able to watch past the first few minutes without Clint there beside him--and the last few minutes, when she said she hoped he'd find someone to share his life with.... Well, he wasn't the only one who needed some tissues after that.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dad?"

Phil glanced over the top of his coffee mug. "Mmm-hmm?"

"Remember when Clint was going to teach me ASL?"

"I remember that he tried to, yes," Phil said mildly. "What did you have, four lessons?"

"Five," Ava said. "And, yes, I know I kinda dropped the ball, but I wanted to pick it back up again, and I wanted to know if I could maybe go over to Clint's apartment some time for another lesson."

Phil considered and rejected a couple of responses before settling on, "why not have Clint teach you when he's here? Maybe Henry and I could join in."

"I guess," Ava said, with a hint of a whine, "but, like, I thought maybe it could be just me and Clint. Like, we could spend some time together."

He knew he was being played somehow, but Phil was quick to agree, and after some texting, they decided Ava would come with him when he headed to the hospital for his evening shift clinical. He dropped her off in Clint's office with her tablet and went to join his students.

It was late when he got home, and he was exhausted--regular clinical had nothing on managing students after one of them, not to mention their professor, had nearly been killed two weeks earlier, and he'd had to hold an impromptu post-conference to discuss how to deal with stress and emotional responses without letting it affect patient care. Seeing Clint's car in the garage wasn't much of a surprise, even if he'd thought Clint would be staying at the apartment that night, but it made him smile all the same.

When he saw Ava sitting on the couch with her laptop, he felt the smile drop off his face. "You okay, kiddo?" he asked. 

She grimaced before answering, shutting her laptop and staring at it for a moment. "I'm fine. I just, I kind of have something I need to talk to you about. It's not about Clint," she added quickly, glancing at him and then away again. "Clint's great. I just, I didn't exactly really go over there to practice ASL. I wanted to talk to him before I talked to you."

"Okay," Phil said, swallowing his uncertainty. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm bisexual," she told him.

"Is that all?" Phil asked, awash in relief. "Honey, you know there's no way I'm going to judge you for that. I love you, and Clint and I and Henry will be there for you no matter what."

"I know that," Ava said, frowning again. "But, Dad, it's not the same--I'm not the same as you. I'm not gay. Being bisexual is different."

"Of course it is," Phil said, sitting next to her and putting his arm around her. "And I'm glad you talked to Clint about that."

She leaned in. "Yeah, it was good. He's pretty smart. Also, I knew you'd be fine about it and all, but, Dad, I just came out to you! That wasn't easy, even though you're gay. I'm kind of scared."

"I'm sorry," Phil said, kissing the top of her head. "I know it's scary. Is there anything I can do to help? Like, maybe some special 'I just came out to my dad' ice cream? I think we have everything we need for banana splits. We even have rainbow colored sprinkles!"

"A banana split sounds great," Ava said, smiling. 

"Is there any particular reason you've been thinking about this stuff now?" Phil asked when she followed him into the kitchen. He had his suspicions, but that's all they were.

"Yeah," Ava sighed. "I like Judith. I think she might like me, too. Clint said I should just talk to her, but what if I'm wrong about her? What if she doesn't want to be friends anymore?"

Phil gave himself some insightful parenting points for being right. "That might happen, it's true, but knowing Judith like you do, do you really think she'd do something like that?" 

"I don't _know,"_ Ava whined, pulling the peel off a banana so forcefully that it broke in half. 

"Well, there's only one way to find out. I agree with Clint--why don't you try talking to her?"

"I guess," Ava sighed. 

He let it go and concentrated on making the best banana split he could, complete with loads of rainbow sprinkles.

The next day, Ava came home holding hands with Judith, both of them beaming. 

The rest of the summer passed by quickly. Darcy came for nearly two weeks, staying in her old room and making no mention of how what used to be her closet was now filled with Phil’s winter clothing. She took Ava and Judith out for a spa day and went to the Art Institute with Henry. All of them, including Clint, went to the beach three times; Darcy even went to the archery range with Clint. She and Phil sat out on the back porch, drinking beer and talking, one night while Clint took the kids (and Judith, who was spending so much time at the house Phil had to remind her to go home on occasion) out to a movie.

When Darcy left, she hugged them all tightly, and the house felt a little emptier, but less so than before Clint had come into their lives.

Phil was called in to talk to both the police and the FBI on several occasions, but they wouldn't tell him much. Carol reported what little she could find out, but she and Jimmy advised him not to worry. 

Carol also gave him a thick file on Hammer, but he ended up not having to use it with Ava. After talking it over with Clint, Henry, and Idunn, Phil sat down with her to watch the videos Ellie had made for him. She never asked about Hammer again, although Phil suspected she told Judith the whole story.

Phil discovered a shoebox in with Clint's things in the closet when he was sorting through his suits. He left it alone, wanting to respect Clint’s privacy, until he knocked the lid off by accident. The box was full of letters, the envelopes still sealed. Phil knew they weren't the letters he'd written to Clint: those were tucked in beside the letters from Clint to Phil in his desk drawer. He put the lid back on without looking any further.

Clint wanted to wait until after Kate got back from California to move in officially; waiting gave them enough time to carefully organize their collective belongings and decide what to keep. After thinking about it one night while Clint was at his apartment, Phil suggested they get a new set of bedroom furniture, one that belonged to both of them. Clint enthusiastically agreed, and after careful consideration and traipsing through endless mattress stores, they ended up ordering a king-sized bed with a mattress so comfortable Phil was afraid they'd never get out of bed. Phil thought the new set-up would suit the two of them well, and he made plans to add old furniture to his growing list of planned donations.

The day they ordered the bed, Phil was going through the drawers in his dresser again, sorting out what would go in which drawer of the new furniture, what could move to the basement, and what else he might donate. Clint was "helping," which mostly meant balling up Phil's neatly folded socks so that he could throw them halfway across the room, bounce them off the wall, and have them land perfectly in the box he'd set up in the closet. Phil looked up when the thuds of socks against the wall stopped.

"Phil Coulson, do you have _sex toys_ hidden in your _sock drawer?"_ Clint exclaimed, waving a couple of them around with what Phil considered an inordinate amount of glee.

"Keep your voice down!" Phil hissed. "And, yes, obviously. Give them here; I'll take them out to the garage later."

"The garage? Why?" Clint asked, this time more quietly. "I know I'm hardly an expert on butt plugs, but they look fine to me."

Phil moved closer and took the toys from Clint. "There's nothing wrong with them," he said. "I just don't really have much use for them anymore."

"Oh," Clint said after a moment. "But..."

"But?" Phil asked when he trailed off.

Clint shook his head. "Nothing."

It wasn't nothing, Phil could tell, but he also wasn't sure it was the best time to get into it. This didn't seem to be one of the times when he should push. He put the toys in the top of a box that went into the closet rather than the garage. He thought Clint noticed, but he wasn't sure, and Clint didn't say anything else.

The day they finally nailed down the delivery date for the new bed (coordinating it with the mattress delivery had been an exercise in frustration), Clint made a peach cobbler for dessert that was even better than Phil had expected. While Phil was busy digesting, sprawled on the couch with his hand on his belly, Clint cleared his throat to get Phil's attention. He was scratching the back of his neck in that way that indicated Phil needed to pay close attention for any potential emotional landmines. 

"What's up?" he asked, scooting closer. Ava had gone up to watch her _Les Miserables_ bluray again with her bowl of cobbler in tow. Phil knew she probably wouldn’t come down again until morning; Judith was out of town with her family, and Ava had been moping all week. 

"I, uh, I kind of wanted to maybe try some things?" Clint said. "I mean, I don't want to make a big deal about it, but I figured I should tell you. I don't even know for sure if I'm going to do it at all, but I don't want you to freak out."

When it was clear that he wasn't going to continue, Phil put his hand on Clint's shoulder and said, "Babe, I'm gonna need a little more information than that."

"Right," Clint said, nodding. "More information. I'm talking about sex."

"Okay," Phil said, putting his arm around Clint and smirking. "Do you want to talk about it some more?"

Clint snorted. “Not really," he said. "Just, you know, I might want to try some things, but I don't want you to freak out." He took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself, and added, "like, butt stuff. Ass play? Fuck, you know what I mean."

"Butt stuff," Phil repeated with a smile. Clint was blushing, and Clint was adorable when he blushed, not that it happened that frequently. Phil reminded himself that this was serious. "Mine or yours?"

"Yours," Clint said quickly. "If that's okay."

"That's definitely okay," Phil said. "It's also okay if no butt stuff ever happens, for the record. I’m more than satisfied with our sex life; I hope you know that.” 

They hadn't talked about it since they first got together. Phil had figured it was completely off the table, and he was fine with that--sex with Clint was always good, no matter what they did--but he'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it. Clint had very long fingers; the idea of them inside him made Phil shiver a little. 

"No, I know," Clint said. "I just--don't take this the wrong way, but I figured if I could stick a suppository up some random patient’s ass, I should be able to handle fingering my incredibly hot boyfriend. You know, if my incredibly hot boyfriend liked it."

"Sex is supposed to be fun," Phil said gently. "Fun for both of us, not just me."

"I know," Clint said. He looked up and met Phil's eyes. "I think it would be. I mean, I really like it when you're enjoying yourself. It's really hot. It turns me on. So I want to try it."

Phil studied Clint's face for a moment. "I think I'd like it if my incredibly hot boyfriend fingered me," he said, "as long as he felt comfortable with it."

"Okay," Clint said with a small smile. "Stay tuned, I guess?"

"Okay," Phil said, reeling him in for a kiss. "Love you."

Nothing happened that night or for the next few of nights. Clint stayed at his place when Phil had clinical, using his time in his apartment to get organized. He brought most of his shoes and nicer clothing over the weekend before the new furniture was to be delivered. That night he asked Phil to show him what he liked.

"What do you mean?" Phil asked. 

"I know those toys are in the closet and not the garage," Clint said, fiddling with the bedspread. "I thought you could get your favorite out and show me."

"I could do that," Phil agreed, watching Clint carefully. "Promise me one thing?"

"Yes, Phil, I promise to tell you if I get uncomfortable," Clint said, with enough exasperation in his voice that Phil thought it would probably go okay.

He laid the toys from the box out on the bed—three buttplugs; Phil had never had what he'd consider a very adventurous sex life--and talked a little about each to Clint. "What about this one?" Clint asked, holding the purple one up.

This time it was Phil's turn to blush. "I, uh, I bought that because it made me think of you," he said. "The color, obviously, but also the way it's longer and more narrow than some of the others. It made me think about your fingers."

"Yeah?" Clint asked, smirking. He held it between his index and middle fingers and wiggled everything suggestively. "You saying you like my fingers, Coulson?"

"I love your fingers," Phil said honestly. "I love watching you use them--in the kitchen, or typing on your laptop, or inserting an IV. I love feeling them on my skin, tasting them, sucking them...." He took Clint's hand and pulled his two fingers into his mouth, knowing that he wasn't the only one who enjoyed that particular move. 

"Fuck, Phil, get over here," Clint said, grabbing Phil's shoulder and pulling him on top of him. 

By the time they were naked Phil had completely forgotten about the butt plug, but Clint had not. "Show me," he demanded, then watched avidly as Phil applied a generous amount of lube and slowly slid the plug in. "Don't you need to, you know, do the stretching with your fingers thing first?" he asked.

Phil shook his head. "It's not really like that," he said. "The plug's not that big, for one thing." He hoped Clint wouldn't ask anything else; he really didn't feel like discussing the anatomy of various sphincter muscles at that moment.

"Right," Clint said, nodding. "And it feels...it feels good?"

"Usually," Phil said, his erection wilting a little from the not so sexy direction the conversation had taken. "You could help with that, you know."

"I could--oh," Clint said. He grinned and slid down between Phil's legs. "You mean this?" he asked before wrapping his lips around Phil's cock. 

Phil let his head fall back on the pillow and let out a moan--fuck but Clint was good at that--only to raise up again and glare as Clint pulled back off. 

"Or maybe you want some help with this," Clint said, reaching for the base of the plug.

"Fuck," Phil gasped as Clint gently rocked the plug in and out. He managed to say, "You don't have to," but it was getting tougher to talk.

Clint surged up and kissed him, tongue deep in his mouth, until they were both panting. Then he sat up. "I want to," he said, and it was his serious voice. "Phil, I want to. You--I want to make you feel good. It makes me feel good--fuck, it's hot when I can get to you like this. I'm not freaking out, I promise. The only part of me that's uncomfortable is my dick, and that's just 'cause it's so hard." He thrust against Phil, both of them moaning at the sensation.

"Well, carry on, then," Phil said, waving his hand, only to gasp again when Clint moved the plug more forcefully and went down on Phil at the same time. 

After that, there wasn't much left for Phil to do but moan and even beg a little. He came like a freight train, so quickly it was a little embarrassing. He was still getting his breath back when he heard Clint finishing himself off with a long, low groan. "Sorry, I--"

Clint put his hand over Phil's mouth. "Don't even try to apologize. How many times do I have to tell you I liked it?"

When he lifted his hand up, Phil hid a smirk and said, "I don't know--maybe once more? Do you think we're sexually compatible, Clint?"

"Fuck you," Clint said, whacking him on the shoulder. "I'll show you sexually compatible, asshole."

"Well, yeah," Phil said, not even trying to hide his grin anymore. "That was kind of the point, wasn't it?"

"Oh my God, why am I with you again?" Clint said, muffling his words in Phil's chest.

"Because you love me," Phil said smugly, earning himself another slap, this time on the side of his chest not currently occupied by Clint's face. "Now get off me so I can go clean up."

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, taking his hearing aids out. By the time Phil got back into bed, he was asleep.


End file.
